November has a rickety reputation among cats. Braggarts belch about turkeys, but no Butterballs roll into the Tabby’s Place lobby. (Prescott checked under all the chairs. None.) There are credible rumors of something entitled “stuffing,” but limited evidence beyond garlicky human kisses. It’s almost enough to make a cat stop giving thanks.
Age can make you outrageous. Age should make you outrageous. But I have a feeling Buster did not wait for senior status to become sensational.
Fenek was one small cat in one rural New Jersey room. He was the size of the entire world, and his universe was ever expanding.
How many days have you lived today? How many of them were holidays? How many of them were Derbish days?
In the literary realm, “ekphrastic” refers to poetry inspired by a visual image. In the Tabby’s Place realm, “ekphrastic” refers to everything we do at all times.
It’s Thanksgiving at Tabby’s Place. It’s the fourth Thursday in November. These facts do not entirely overlap.
We come to the twilight of the year. Will we mourn the sun, or turn our chins up to the skylights? Will we lament leaves and lilies, or ascend the bare hills? In short: will we be humans, or will we be cats?
Are there things you must do before you can go through with being you? In order to start your day, do you require Apple Jacks in oat milk, or ten jumping jacks in front of the mirror, or a reminder that flowers return? Mae knows a thing or two about taking ornery mornings by the […]
Your life was astounding, but you knew all the answers. Your name meant “enlightened one,” but you wore it lightly.